Day 712, June 14, 2022

Don’t Go In the Water

The deer break the surface of the tall grass 

like seals on the Atlantic sea shore. 

Little playful wiggles of the head, 

how good it must feel 

to be embraced in the dewey morning grass. 

A green heron alights on a spindly tree 

as if blown there 

and together they jostle for space, 

a lookout on the crow’s nest, 

an acrobat on a wire. 

And a moment still, 

a great black bear swims in languid strides 

across 

the street, 

stops in the front yard and looks at me. 

Its brown snout. 

Those dark uncurious eyes. 

A dog is barking and a man yells out a warning 

in a Boston Irish accent. 

Its arms make me think of elephants, 

and I can imagine touching the hair, 

a matted stringiness 

like someone who has been sleeping out in the wild 

for many days. 

I think my hands would smell 

after I touched him. 

Linger, 

all through the day, 

ever faintly, 

more than memory.